I’ve been reading your Alte letters to Charlie recently. We’re both very much enjoying them. And they serve as lovely diversion and reprieve from his present situation. I have read your works for some time now. But they’re new for Charlie. Needless to say he’s been quite impressed. Me: “Yeah! I told you so!” No,I don’t actually say that to him. I simply agree. Thank you. ♥️
Dear Larry,
I’ve been reading your Alte letters to Charlie recently. We’re both very much enjoying them. And they serve as lovely diversion and reprieve from his present situation. I have read your works for some time now. But they’re new for Charlie. Needless to say he’s been quite impressed. Me: “Yeah! I told you so!” No,I don’t actually say that to him. I simply agree. Thank you. ♥️
Love hearing the feelings expressed and your aspiration 🥰
Hi, Larry, a set of good ideas in this. I had sent a poem to the ALTE "non-human" series, but it wasn't accepted.
Your entry makes me think of a recent submission I made to my Poetry Pact. There are some odd coincidences between your entry and my poem.
All the best, Roni
One step at a time
(a Crown of Sonnets)
I
Imperceptibly, one step at a time,
and slowly, I go forward with much strife,
mountains appearing which I cannot climb,
which often make my daily humdrum life
seem naught but horrid presages which live,
unwanted, but persistent in my mind.
This urges me to take instead of give.
My sensibilities are often blind.
What have I seen, where do I sometimes go,
often seeking pleasure and also fame,
neglecting messages which clearly show
my selfish struggles? It is my great shame.
There is, I think, a better way to live.
Think more of others, what there is to give.
II
Think more of others, what there is to give,
and while this healing process starts to sprout,
there is another benefit. I’ll live,
not only for myself, but others, out
into a world I might have known before,
sometimes alien to what I now see.
I dreamed of a cabin, with broken door.
It lead to new thoughts of what I might be.
Inside this dwelling, complex thoughts arise.
I walk with hesitation and some dread,
not sure what is lurking there, what surprise,
but on the rough-hewn floor a humble bed
on which I might lie, happy, also sad,
recalling a world too often gone mad.
III
Recalling a world too often gone mad,
the past unfolds to reveal some lost hope,
a beautiful rock I wish I still had,
a vague memory of a fine lost trope.
I used to wander, one step at a time,
in the hills east of home. Dark green live oak
and old olive groves would suggest a rhyme,
and solitary canyons might invoke
yet another poem. I tried to see
beyond this complex world, a way to thrive,
to set aside what seemed mundane, to be
someone not hindered, but fully alive,
creating new moments—some hot, some cold,
revealing something neither young nor old.
IV
Revealing something neither young nor old?
This is puzzle indeed! Where might I find
an answer to what is hot and what cold?
Within my aging skull, a brain, a mind
which I consider capable of thought,
of reason to find reason in the night,
differentiate what’s sold and what’s bought,
know at last what is wrong and what is right.
Conundrum for my present aging self!
I still suppose there’s fruit beneath the crust.
I do not want to lie upon the shelf,
among my books, sitting, gathering dust.
There are scents to smell in the outdoor breeze.
There is beauty in flowers, birds, and trees.
V
There is beauty in flowers, birds, and trees.
My grandchildren as well. They are young sprouts,
beginning their lives while crawling on knees,
then crying or walking with happy shouts,
the world around them blossoming, alive
with possible adventure, much surprise.
With luck they will grow like trees, and survive
into paths through which they will realize
what is good for them, what is good for all.
In what we grandparents have failed to do
the young can find another sort of call.
There is a world out there, a mighty crew,
waiting for the leaders who can unite
another and a better way to fight.
VI
Another and a better way to fight!
This means, most obviously, without war,
without the old characteristic night
falling, obscuring what can become more,
and not just that but a “more” with some hope,
the hope of companions who reject pain
imposed on others, who have a new scope,
knowing that sometimes having less is gain.
Poems come to me, and yet poems fail,
the rhythm of words not enough to break
into the deadly meanings of our frail
attempts to make a better world. We make
improvement in our time, sometimes too pale,
ships constructed well, which will never sail.
VII
Ships constructed well, which will never sail
are ships which might be remodeled, with time
and energy needed. Rethink the trail
we have to follow. Perhaps poets’ rhyme
might well be yet another way to win.
I can, persisting in my urgent quest,
start incrementally, just to begin,
have some ideas which turn out as best.
¿Quién sabe? say Spanish-speaking friends,
recalling much of what I once knew well.
My good wife was my guru for what sends
me onward, with my messages which kvell.
When will I get where I find the best rhyme?
Imperceptibly, one step at a time.
Ah yes! Well said.